Thursday, September 10, 2009

Which is it?

Which is it, America? All of us or none of us? Indigenous occupation or Columbus land disfiguration? Pilgrim or pillage? Pilgrimage to villages of my ancestors' souls' sole prints on pyramid grounds, not Plymouth Rock. Plundering, pasty, pale face pirates barter we good for their goods in our hoods. What's under the hood? Volkswagen? Folks draggin' my mans an' nem the body tumbling and thuds background sound for America's anthem. Mexican reclamation of real estate, now y'all up at arms throwing immigrant tantrums unforeign to we colored folk that have seen this before. Which is it, America? Go green or be black? Plant a tree for your tomorrow, while we sob in sorrow. Can we borrow a saw to sever our fruit from your bigoted branches and uproot racist remarks? You lie? You lie! You lie on our creativity's bed, reproducing cash from fucking us instead. Reduce credit, reuse demoralizing themes, recycle beats for sympathizing beatniks to freak and front our flavor. Profiting from persona-pimping my people from hip-hop, to rock, to jazz, to lips, hips, hair, nose, genitals and ass. I ask which is it, America? The other white meat, get beat to the white meat, or influenza driving under the influence of swine no matter whole, malignant, or benign. Pork, police, or pressing the oppressed to get shots, or get fined, or get jailed, or get shot, or get sick, or get profiled, or get pulled, or get lynched, or get premium lunch meat. Which is it? Bald Eagle or Pitbull? Sick of Vick or sic 'em? I guess while dogs battle now, back then they circled us like herded cattle, nipping at our dogs, so tired from protesting. Gnawing at our bones simmering in the Mason-Dixon sun and determined sweat. Your pup shits on trees while your laws shit on we. At least your bullets were free to roam in our dome, right? Can't even call this place your home, right? Which is it, bitch? Health care or Hollywood head? Which? Bi-partisanship or badger bi-racial brother? Monotonous monopoly on mahogany inspiration. WHICH IS IT, AMERICA? USA...or US?

Tree of Life and Love

Under the Weeping Willow Tree we meet
Conversing with verses that are matched versus
the Words of Man
In the World of God
We share smiles similar to similes that mirror our affection for each other
Dark and lovely like 'universal forevers' echoed in the canals of ears
In the annals of time
Confined to this Earth with your lips pursed,
Eyebrows raised and hands extended interlocking with mine as roots would sacred soil
Deep stares I dare levy upon you to let your love sweat love out of its pores
For a heartbeat concedes to both of our inner selves breathing in each other's air
Even before wanting mouths explore and tongues so African reconnect
I resurrect amorous psalms and proverbs before your presence
Like limbs and leaves erect,
Letting the ori omit opposites of bliss and Oya
bless me with your breezy, easy calm
Before the storm of passion
fruit bares truth
You supply the sunshine lemonade made ready for consumption
as both our spirits bump your soul's selection
Under the rocking of the arbor's dressing
Feeling vibrations
We connect like Bluetooth
underneath the roof of the stars and heavens
Video strides I take to shake the visible blues
Ebbing and flowing to this day
Your hips directional sway,
makes my afternoon
Just before night swoons to daybreak
My ways with words are sometimes diverted by
Exploratory detours when the minds meet
Negativity's grinders causing mentality to
Ground and insatiable insanity to inflate upwards.
However, conversation that sate your thirst for edutainment
cannot delay me in drink you and I,
Smiles and all, knotted not in a carving of this tree's rough bark
In a flask not fit for mortals and men so petty to spark the not so slick spiel
So sleek that we grasp these emotions with grip tight rubber gloves
And hope that love won't slip from our celestial hands above.
This tree we congregate, spitting seeds of wisdom into the air
Sprouting elements of freedom and
Succulent visions of dusty domains we once called home
Represents strength in its branches that hold in our anger
And the stumps that lay roots sap our pains away
We now wail with the winds and cry desire from our pores
We dare rest here, beneath the shadow of the giant
Spooning like we forgot fruit pieces in serving bowls
Thanking the ancestors for become a blanket of eyes over us
watching the recreation of God
Take place
In a space reserved for
Do not park here.

No Brasil

Going to the Houston Brazilian Festival downtown made me want to escape to Brazil and never come back. That is, if I could take her and the children. I am not a fan of oppression, and I despise stagnation, so I am willing to live out my existence in Bahia or Rio. Who knows? I do plan to do a class and internship there next year with my friends. Advantages of speaking better Portuguese and maybe spending some time playing Capoeira there as well excites me! But that will take a portfolio, some scrilla, and total will to leave into a place so foreign to me. Come with?